Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.

The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels,

They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.

Our frigate takes fire,

The other asks if we demand quarter?

If our colours are struck and the fighting done?

Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain,

"We have not struck," he composedly cries, "we have just begun our part of the fighting."

Only three guns are in use,

One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast,

Two well served with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.

The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top,

They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

Not a moment's cease,

The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.

One of the pumps had been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.

Serene stands the little captain,

He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more light to us than our battlelanterns.

Toward twelve, there in the beams of the moon, they surrender to us.'

CII

BEAT! BEAT! DRUMS!

BEAT! beat! drums!-blow! bugles! blow!

Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force,

Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet-no happiness must
he have now with his bride,

Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,

So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums-so shrill, you bugles, blow.

Beat! beat! drums!-blow! bugles! blow!

Over the traffic of cities-over the rumble of wheels

in the streets;

Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds, No bargainers' bargains by day-no brokers or speculators would they continue?

Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?

Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?

Then rattle quicker, heavier, drums-you bugles, wilder blow.

Beat! beat! drums!-blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley-stop for no expostulation,

Mind not the timid-mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's
entreaties,

Make even the trestle to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,

So strong you thump, O terrible drums-so loud, you bugles, blow.

СІІІ

TWO VETERANS

THE last sunbeam

Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath,

On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking. Down a new-made double grave.

Lo! the moon ascending,

Up from the east the silvery round moon,

Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom

moon,

Immense and silent moon.

I see a sad procession,

And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, As with voices and with tears.

I hear the great drums pounding,

And the small drums steady whirring,

And every blow of the great convulsive drums
Strikes me through and through.

For the son is brought with the father,
(In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell,
Two veterans son and father dropt together,
And the double grave awaits them).

Now nearer blow the bugles,

And the drums strike more convulsive,

And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, And the strong dead-march enwraps me.

In the eastern sky up-buoying,

The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined,
('Tis some mother's large transparent face
In heaven brighter growing).

O strong dead-march you please me!

O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to burial! What I have I also give you.

The moon gives you light,

And the bugles and the drums give you music,
And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,
My heart gives you love.

CIV

THE PLEASANT ISLE OF AVÈS

OH England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,

But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish

main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,

All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;

And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and

free

To choose their valiant captains and obey them

loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;

Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,

Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

O the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold,

And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;